


You Found Me

by we_are_all_sherlocked (BoudicaBabe)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Smut, mild drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoudicaBabe/pseuds/we_are_all_sherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been dancing around it for a while, but Sherlock things taking drugs is the way to help it along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Found Me

Sherlock watched the small baggie circle the toilet, the white powder looking even more pristine and snowy against the just barely off-white porcelain. For a spilt second, he reached out to save it. 

‘No. This is the very last time.’ 

Sherlock had always had an inkling that Dr. John Watson might be in love with him. There was his not so subtle interest in Sherlock that first night at Angelo’s. There were the exclamations of “fantastic” and “brilliant.” There was the way that his pulse picked up when Sherlock invaded his personal space. 

Then one day, John realized he was in love with Sherlock, and Sherlock was absolutely sure. The harder John tried to hide it, the surer Sherlock became. It excited Sherlock to be so wanted, so truly desired despite his faults. He’d never been good at sharing attention. And in turn, it was terrifying to Sherlock. He was socially inept, yes, but he understood what a relationship entailed. He had already opened up to John more than anyone else, but he would want more, and if he knew more, would he then regret that he had asked at all?

The cocaine had always made everything clear to him, and he thought that if he used it just the once to really look at John, then he would know. He could deduct John all the way through, from front to back like a book, and know if he would turn away. Maybe, if he could really see John, then he could deduct the future. Because, losing John? That would just not be allowed.

As the effects began to grip him, Sherlock experienced true awareness. His eyes suddenly fell into perfect focus. Everything around him was in Technicolor, the edges clean and sharp. The air suddenly felt like it really filled his lungs for the first time in months. This was his mind at its best. This was truly what he meant when he said that everything else was just transport.

‘I can see.’  
_______________________________________________________

John cracked his neck to one side, then the other, as the cab took another turn. He was just too exhausted to walk home from the surgery tonight, the place had been packed. He wondered how anything got done in London when they were all bloody sick in the middle of his clinic.

He was an hour late tonight, and it surprised John that Sherlock had not completely filled his phone with his boredom. Not that he really would’ve minded it. Okay, yes, he quite enjoyed texting Sherlock. He quite enjoyed anything Sherlock at all. 

He found himself both excited to see Sherlock and terrified for Sherlock to see him. Oh, John knew that Sherlock knew. In fact, as soon as he figured it out, he knew that Sherlock would see it on his face. What surprised John, and very little usually did at this point, was Sherlock’s reaction. It was like uni all over again, the almost touches (“How are we supposed to convince people to take us seriously when you have fuzz all over your shirt. Don’t bother. I’ll get it.”), the even more pronounced disregard of personal space (their hands almost touching in the car, his breath on John’s ear reading over his shoulder), the showing off (up turned collars, speedier deductions than usual), the confusion (the looks that he was giving John made him look all of 12 years old). 

John let Sherlock try to figure it out. He didn’t push it. He didn’t even really react any different than usual, except maybe a few more praises than usual, and a few involuntary bodily reactions (no, not that, thank God, he’d never live that one down). 

John had faith that when Sherlock had figured out what he wanted, he would let John know. No reason to make anything awkward. Even if they both knew what was happening. Especially if Sherlock decided that he didn’t want him. God, it would break his heart, but at least he wouldn’t lose him. That would be wholly unacceptable. So, John had faith.

\--------------------------------------------------

John found him in the hallway, Sherlock’s eyes rimmed red, just coming off the end of the high. Slouched against the wall, knees pressed to his chest, looking up at John, he seemed tired. “You’re late,” he croaked. John kneeled down to look at him, checking his pulse, taking his temperature with the swipe of a hand. Sherlock locked his eyes with John’s, reading the concern, the hurt, the anger, the love. 

Oh, John was livid, ignoring Sherlock’s statement completely. “I really thought that you might have more sense than this. I really had faith that you could figure this out on your own.” He had mild tachycardia. His pupils were dilated, but just barely. Body temperature was dropping back to normal, and his skin was clammy with post-high sickness. John’s hands probed more across his face and wrist, and then came to rest in his own lap as he crossed his legs, facing Sherlock.“We both know what this is about, and you’re a sodding idiot.” 

“It was just one last time. I flushed the rest. It was just one last time. I just wanted to see your face in perfect clarity. I just wanted to see you, to see through you.” Words flew from his lips with the grace of dandelion seeds but dropped into John’s hearts like bombs. 

Sherlock was aware of what he was saying. The effects of the cocaine were fading, but he wasn’t in some dazed haze of withdrawal yet. He’d been doing this long enough to know how long he could control his mind, before the fatigue and hunger set in, before the next craving. He just wanted to say this, he wanted to go through with this, and he wanted John. If there was one thing he was sure of after this, then it would be that no one would love him like John, still sitting here, still not running away. He had this once chance. 

“Don’t you dare make this about me, Sherlock,” John hissed. “You’ve always been able to see straight through me. You’re scared. You’re scared because this means I can see straight back through you too.” John’s teeth gritted together as Sherlock’s hands clenched. Almost sorry but not quite, John folded his hands over Sherlock’s. Pressing his forehead against the dark, sweat-matted curls of Sherlock’s forehead, he ghosted his hands over the pale, endless arms to the pale, endless neck where he could curl his fingers in more damp curls. “I wish you wouldn’t make me so afraid that I’m going to lose you because you’re afraid to lose me first.”

Sherlock thought that John had a point there, not that he would admit it. It was never really occurred to him that the fear of loss was mutual. It was all very new to him, but John’s hands on his body grounded him. For the first time, it wasn’t the drugs that gave him the most clarity. It was the pulse in John’s thumbs pressing behind his ears. It was the breath dancing across his chin as John sighed. It was John. It was only John. 

Sherlock pressed his forehead back against John’s worry lines (worry lines for him). Then Sherlock spread his legs open, pulling John’s pretzel folded legs between them by the front of his hideous jumper. Knees and long, perfect legs surrounded John, and bronzed, muscular arms caged Sherlock in. Between the two, they formed their own little bubble, protected, and oh so unprotected, strong in their togetherness, but vulnerable in their trust of that togetherness. “Don’t let me lose you first. Don’t let me.”

John’s heart broke in that moment. He should have seen it, the rawness that was Sherlock’s psyche. He should have seen it as Sherlock preened, as Sherlock tested this out. It might not have been recent, but John vividly remembers the self-consciousness that you feel when you start navigating love. He remembers the fear that wanting to be wanted is somehow wrong, and he remembers not knowing how to ask for it. In this moment, he wants him to not have to ask. 

John pulled away just enough to brush his lips over Sherlock’s nose, cheekbones, jaw line, temple, and forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it. It is okay, Sherlock. Please, just don’t do this anymore. I want this to be last time you ever have to worry that you’ll lose me, because I’m telling you now, I will have you as long as you let me.” He couldn’t help but think there were so many more places to press his lips with real kisses, swipes of tongue, and the nip of teeth. “I couldn’t get tired of you if I tried.” 

Sherlock inclined his face into the affection, raw and open, barely suppressing a broken whimper. It was Sherlock’s turn for his heart to break. Or was it really it breaking? Or was it just swelling with so much emotion that pressed up against his ribcage like too much water against a dam threatening to crack under the pressure? He wanted this so much. He wanted the adoration, and he wanted to feel wanted, and here he was, undeserving but somehow blessed

“You’re wrong, you know,” Sherlock whispered as John’s lips ghost over the shell of his ear. “I can see you, truly see who you are, but I can’t see through you. It’s okay though, because you are you, and despite the fact that it doesn’t make much sense, it’s enough. Truly John, you are _extra_ ordinary.” Hot breath washed across his ear as John paused. Sherlock dropped his voice even lower. “I don’t need anything but you.” 

John barely paused before he kissed him full on the lips. Sherlock pressed back into it, pulled slightly by the hands at the nape of his neck. He flattened his hands against John’s jumper, feeling the warm skin below through the fabric as he tasted John’s mouth. He wanted to return that adoration. He wanted to learn those soft kisses and press them against every part of John. Speaking of John, he was now running his tongue along the inside of Sherlock’s mouth, which he was now theorizing may be connected to every nerve ending in his entire body. “John.” A simple statement against John’s lips. For once Sherlock wanted to let it all go, to let John have this part of him. So he did. 

Then, his hands betrayed him as a quake from the cocaine and the effort and emotional exhaustion ran through his body, the crash starting to set in. John sighed softly as he pulled away. Right now he needed to take care of him because he was tired now. “Sherlock.” One word. One word, and the anger, confusion, and weariness of a thousand small wars waged with Sherlock and with himself were melting into concern and unadulterated love played out by the soft, expressive lines of John’s face. “I need only you as well. I think you’ve always known that. Now, let’s get you into bed.”

John extricated himself from Sherlock, leaving them both feeling oddly exposed. “You’re not off the hook yet. I swear I will show you some of those special army moves that they taught me if you ever try that again. Now, let me take your pulse.” John ordered, his voice authoritative. 

“Of course, _doctor_. It’s not like I’ve been dealing with this for years by myself or anything.” Sherlock drawled back. John just grabbed his wrist, took his pulse (almost normal, must not have been a large dose), and without much warning hauled him up from the floor, pulling him against his body not quite ready to let the moment go. Too soon for either of their liking, John pulled away and gave Sherlock a small shove towards his bedroom. 

“Ah, but you’re not by yourself anymore, are you? Now go! I’ll bring you tea and a sandwich.” John was gone before Sherlock could even protest, leaving Sherlock to tromp upstairs to the bedroom. 

“I’m not a child!” Sherlock shouted, trying not to be petulant, as he heard noise start in the kitchen. He could feel the energy draining from his body, but he could still hear each plate, mug, and slosh of water. ‘Now, he’s setting the water to boil. He’s already got my sugar measured out.’

“Oh, I’m very aware of that,” John chuckled wickedly. “Go take a shower. You’re a mess.”

John heard Sherlock make an indignant sound. Nothing changed. Neither of them were different people, and John was comforted by this thought. Sherlock was still brilliant, utterly and completely childish, and perfectly foiled to John. Hearing the shower start, John took his time tasting Sherlock’s taste on his lips before making the tea.

________________________________________________________________________

Well, some things did change. For instance, two separate showers (one each), two sandwiches (both for Sherlock, suddenly famished), three mugs of tea (two for John and only one for Sherlock), one hissy fit (“Take the fucking medicine, Sherlock, or I swear I will…”), three condescending remarks (“Oh, please tell me all about it, _doctor_.”), and one smack to the back of the head (just guess), they find themselves curled in the same bed. John truly had every intention of leaving after force feeding him some Advil (for God’s sake, talk about drama), but as he rose from the bed, Sherlock fixed him with the most heart-stopping gaze he’d ever seen. He saw constellations and meteors and all the planets rotating around the sun and everything he’d ever written in a sappy poem to a girl (because it was just what you did, but not because he understood). 

Suddenly he found himself kneeling on the bed wrapping his arms around Sherlock. Warmth worked its way around both of them. It’s at this point that it all clicked, not in some desperate moment, but in an innocent one. They knew that things had changed, that something had happened in the hallway that they couldn’t take back. But if they were either one honest with themselves, they didn’t want to take it back. Sherlock inhaled John’s shampoo and soap from the crook of John’s neck where wonderful thick tendons knit the muscles of a soldier and rugby player together. “John.” Once again, just that one word speaking across all the emotional barriers that he was struggling with, that one word that could explain everything to John. 

John leaned down, fixing his eyes on Sherlock’s, and cupped his head with both hands carding through (now _clean_ and damp) curls, much like earlier. Sherlock pressed his hands against the thin, soft fabric of John’s sleep shirt. Possibly, in an innocent attempt to one-up Sherlock, John intertwined their legs together, his bare legs sliding across the silk of Sherlock’s sleep pants. Then they just looked at each other. 

John thought about the fact that he had doubted that Sherlock would ever be able to share this with him. He thought about the fact that he would have been content just to spend the rest of his life with Sherlock as his flatmate and best friend. He thought about the fact that being this close to Sherlock, that seeing all the colors in his eyes, completely surpassed contentment. It might have even surpassed happiness. All he knew is that this was now. 

Sherlock watched John’s face scrutinize his own, but really John was feeling, and Sherlock was seeing. Sherlock was seeing everything play out across John’s face, and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe because there was just too much that he didn’t understand, and the fear crept up in the back of his throat. He gripped John’s shirt even harder. 

“Sherlock,” John said plaintively. Another simple statement meant to bring Sherlock back here, back to his arms. Maybe it was too much time spent around Sherlock, or just his natural judge of character, but he could see Sherlock floundering out of his depth. “It’s just me. It’s just John.” And the depth was suddenly just John, and Sherlock maybe caught a glimpse of what love was supposed to look like, because in his worry and fear, John was just his wonderful, extraordinary John.

This time Sherlock closed the gap between their lips, effectively cutting off all exterior thought. Honestly, Sherlock never really thought about this part. He’s an adult and fully aware of sex and all its implications, but the mechanics, the semantics all seemed skewed, from his perspective. Yet, here it was, the precipice of sex. There was a strange heat coiling across his belly and down his abdomen into his groin. He’d been aroused before, but this was something new, something not born from a biological necessity or a dream he didn’t remember. It was too powerful for him to not want. It was in itself, just want. 

Sherlock slid his hands further across John’s stomach so that his palms were pressed against the hardness of his abdominal muscles and his fingertips dug into his sides. In response, John opened his mouth, tilting it slightly sideways to coax Sherlock’s own tongue out of his mouth. Sucking Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth softly, John felt the growing hardness of both of them through their suddenly too thin clothes. He took a gasp of air causing Sherlock to make a strangled groaning noise. 

John pulled back, not touching him at all. He didn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock. It was known between them that Sherlock was a virgin, and John had done this a few times with men before (like he said, uni), but Sherlock deserved everything that he could give. “Sherlock, we don’t have to—” John began, but stopped when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock, his own personal fantasy, was looking at him with sharp eyes and his mouth partially opened, shiny with their kiss. He was looking at him with full trust and lust and hunger and curiosity and love. John could see it all dancing in his eyes. Cold London air crept between them, and Sherlock’s skin broke into chill bumps. “John, touch me. I’m cold.”

So John did what he was told, and he wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist and used the other to cradle his head as he flipped him onto his back. God, it felt so right to be so close to him, feeling this with him. John didn’t know what he wanted to touch first, what he wanted to do first. He wanted to give Sherlock every pleasurable sensation that he could think of and then completely consume him. 

Sherlock was reveling in the weight of John pressed against him. It was comforting, like being wrapped up tightly in a blanket. His skin was prickling with bumps again, but for a whole different reason. His legs instinctively clenched at John’s hips, and John’s hand behind his head was so tender. The look he was getting was so full of want, of desire that Sherlock could almost choke on the emotions in his throat. “John, just take me please. I just want you to take me, please.” 

Sherlock’s voice was soft and vulnerable, and John wanted to wrap him up in rose petals and light candles and turn on some romantic music and do every single clichéd movie trick. Instead though, he had this moment, and he was going to take Sherlock. 

John placed his hands under Sherlock’s sleep shirt and ran them along the side of his ribs. The skin was hot and silky and smooth and more than John had ever imagined. Running his hands back down, John grasped the sides and slid his arms underneath Sherlock encouraging him to lift up as slid the shirt under him. 

Sherlock lifted his arms letting the shirt be lifted over his head, relishing in the sensation of John’s tough, warm hands traveling across his back. He felt like his body was ablaze. Then John was moving his hands down, hooking a thumb into Sherlock’s pants and sliding down his body. Sherlock felt exposed as John fixed him with a look that could only be described as hungry. Sherlock turned his face and was surprised as he felt John’s body cover his again and his hands cup his face to meet eyes. “Don’t ever look away from me. You are beyond gorgeous.”

John took this as a moment to revel in Sherlock’s impossible body as he nuzzled at his neck, placing wet open-mouthed kisses across his collar bone, over his chin, and finally on his perfectly shaped mouth. It was almost unfair that Sherlock caught onto things so well because his lips pressed back against John’s with a hint of need that makes John’s blood rush in a very pleasant way. 

Then John was suddenly on his back (which turned him on more than he would like to admit at that moment) and making unintelligible noises because Sherlock was taking his clothes off in exactly the same way as his had been dispatched. As Sherlock’s hands were skidding across John’s ribs, John couldn’t help but think that Sherlock’s hands were not what he expected. The pads of his fingertips were callused (‘Oh right, the violin.’) and the texture of them across his skin was, as Sherlock would say, quite fascinating. But John didn’t have long to mull over it because, in a moment, his pants were on the floor and every part of Sherlock’s naked body was now pressed against his and Sherlock was kissing him like he was trying to bring him back from the dead. 

Sherlock, still with his legs around John, experimentally ground his hips. What resulted was a long groan vibrating around Sherlock’s tongue, which he retreated just enough to allow John to pull back and nip Sherlock’s bottom lip. Then John was softly sweeping his tongue across the soft inside of Sherlock’s mouth. If Sherlock had thought he was on fire before, then he realized he must be melting on the surface of the sun now. John just made him so inexplicably wanted, especially as he again flipped on top of Sherlock.  


John pulled away with an intake of air. “Don’t you ever come up for air?” Sherlock responded with an arch of his naked body into John’s, their already hard cocks pressing together. 

“John, please.” Sherlock wanted sex. Sherlock wanted John inside him, whatever that entailed. Sherlock wanted to come. He wanted to fall asleep wrapped around him and wake up the same way. Then he wanted to discover John again, with more time, but not now. 

“Lube?” John gasped out as Sherlock wrapped his legs tighter around John’s hips. 

“Bottom drawer.” Sherlock considered himself luck. He’d actually bought it for an experiment, but not needed it. Needing it for this hadn’t crossed his mind. 

John stretched for it causing him and Sherlock to flop onto their sides. Sherlock laughed as John finally grasped it. “Oh hush,” John admonished, but it was half-hearted as they were both smiling. Using his free hand, he cupped Sherlock’s face, sliding a thumb across his cheekbone. “God, you’re just too good to be true sometimes.” Sherlock’s hair was mussed. His lips were swollen and wet with kisses. His body was still wrapped around John’s like he couldn’t stand to be apart from him. 

Warm lips pressed sweetly against Sherlock’s as he was pressed back into the sheets for a third time (not that he was complaining). Those warm lips then traveled down his neck, to a spot where he didn’t know was sensitive. Then the lips moved down his sternum, followed by fingers tracing his ribs on one side. Then the lips dipped over his navel, which was surprisingly arousing. Suddenly, as though he hadn’t seen it coming, Sherlock was surprised by the lips wrapping around the head of his cock followed by a circling tongue. But they weren’t just a pair of lips, they were connected to John. John had his lips on Sherlock’s cock. He almost arched off the bed. “John.” 

That one word had all the power in the world to John. Said by the man whose body John was currently worshipping, John would take a bullet because Sherlock said his name like that, like it wasn’t his name at all, but a praise that Sherlock had made up just for him. So John pulled away and uncapped the lube applying it liberally to his fingers. He looked up, making eye contact with Sherlock, “I mean this Sherlock, I may be on top, but you’re controlling this. Say no, say stop, and I’ll stop, okay?” 

Sherlock choked out a lust-ridden, “Yes, okay. _John, please, take me._ ” Like a good soldier, John followed orders again. He pulled Sherlock’s legs over his shoulder, giving him access to Sherlock’s underside. 

It was interesting to Sherlock, the first sensation of being breached. John finger was warm and slippery as it first circled him before dipping in slowly. It wasn’t too unpleasant; it just felt like stretching. John pressed it in further and pumped it a few times before adding a second and repeating the process. As he got used to the sensation, it was pleasant being filled. Full was not something that Sherlock was accustomed to feeling. 

John tried to use his knowledge as a doctor to make this a bit better as he located the prostate, being as gentle as possible in stimulating it. Sherlock was a man, but he was a virgin, and he needed a few more times before John could push things like that. In response, Sherlock gasped and let the breath out with a stuttering moan, the first he’d made all night. He didn’t want to rush through this, but John was truly throbbing with the need to be inside of Sherlock. 

Sherlock could not take it anymore. “John. Now.”

John slicked himself up with lube and applied more around Sherlock’s opening. Keeping Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders, he very slowly guided himself into Sherlock.

Sherlock gasped as John entered him. It hurt, but it made Sherlock feel that much more alive as John was truly inside of him. Pressing against the hardness, the fullness, inside of him, he urged John on.

So, this was sex, Sherlock realized as everything around him felt intense. John was making noises as he slowly thrust in and of Sherlock. Sherlock was making noises as John sporadically brushed his prostate. They were looking at each other, and Sherlock couldn’t help but be thankful that he’d jumped off that precipice. 

John was nearing his limits as Sherlock fixed him with a deadly sinful look. Sherlock was just so tight and those hesitant little noises that he wasn’t sure if he should make were killing John. In an effort to finish Sherlock first, he grasped Sherlock’s cock, pumping it in time with the steady thrusts that he had been making. 

Sherlock felt a growing sensation as John was pumping him, and he was now letting out noises in earnest. Then there was a feeling much like there was before they started, like butterflies, but more. Sherlock said John’s name without meaning to, and he _came_ , spurting onto John’s stomach. 

John felt himself close and pulled out, pumping himself a few times to finish on Sherlock’s stomach (saving Sherlock that unpleasant cleaning for now). John promptly collapsed contentedly onto Sherlock. For a moment, there was just breathing, Sherlock's and John's, almost in unison. Then Sherlock realized he was not getting his breath back.

“Mm, you know, I love this John, but I can’t breathe.” Sherlock said as he slid him off onto his back, strangely compliant. Grabbing a shirt, Sherlock cleaned them off. John continued to laze on his back following Sherlock’s every movement with his eyes. 

“I should have told you beforehand, but you should know that I love you.” John suddenly moved and pulled Sherlock’s against him, nuzzling the top of his head. “I really do."

“I know.”

“You know and…” John tucked a hand around Sherlock’s waist. 

There was a pause, and then Sherlock relented. He turned into John’s chest pressing a hand over his heart to count the beats. “I love you, too.”

“That’s what I thought,” John laughed as he pulled Sherlock closer, eyes heavy with sleep. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s mop of hair. 

Sherlock waited as John fell asleep to count the beats of his heart both awake and asleep. Then he allowed himself to also slip away, happy to sleep, but somehow also eager to wake up.


End file.
